Nirvana Funeral Parlor, Room 10, Grand Hall VIPs.
A single casket lay beneath the soft glow of warm yellow lights, surrounded by an ocean of white flowers. Garlands draped over the closed lid as if trying to hide the truth beneath.
A framed photo of Aisha rested above the casket—her gentle smile frozen in time, now mocking the living who dared to stand before her.
A board stood at the entrance: Family Not Accepting Visitors.
Inside, the hall was already being emptied. The quiet sanctity of the room was replaced by barking orders and shuffling feet.
"Move faster. Clean all this up," a gang member shouted as dozens of men began tossing flower wreaths, bouquets, and garlands into black plastic bags.
One man hesitated. "Boss, it hasn't even been two days. It's only been six hours since we set it up. Is this really okay?"
The leader scoffed. "Not even an ant came to pay respects. What's the point? We already got the body in the casket for show. The higher-ups don't give two shits about this."
Another man raised Aisha's framed portrait. "Boss, what do we do with this?"
The leader glared at him. "Are you blind? You wanna jerk off to it? Throw it in the damn dumpster. Who cares?"
The man dropped the frame onto the floor and stepped on it. Others followed, crushing the glass, snapping the frame, smearing mud and dirt over Aisha's smiling face.
Soon, only the casket remained in the room.
The men were just about to leave when footsteps echoed from the hallway. A man walked in, slow and steady.
"Hey! We're not taking visitors!" the leader shouted.
The man ignored him and continued forward. His eyes, cold and shadowed, locked onto the crushed photo on the ground. He paused, staring at the dirty boot prints covering Aisha's face.
"For fuck's sake, we already have enough problems!" the leader yelled. "Who the hell are you?!"
The man tossed an ID card and a folded resignation letter onto a nearby table. The embossed seal pressed against the paper glinted in the dim light.
"I want to know why she died," he said quietly, without turning his head. His gaze stayed fixed on the casket.
"But I guess the higher-ups already touched the evidence. I couldn't find anything clean."
He crouched down, lifted the ruined frame, and carefully pulled the photograph free. He folded it gently, brushing off the dirt with his thumb, and placed it safely in his blazer.
"You know," he continued, "people can lie. But documents cannot."
He took out an autopsy report. It was stamped as a suicide.
He opened it. His hand tightened.
Bruises. Cracked ribs. Deep stab wounds. Fingers broken. Arms twisted. Flesh torn. Limbs nearly severed. The report read less like a suicide and more like someone minced her alive.
"You did a messy job," he said softly. "Was all of this necessary? I am sure she couldn't even scream for help."
He flipped another page.
"But you forgot one thing. She swallowed something. It is still stuck in her throat right now."
The leader motioned to his men to get ready. They advanced slowly, pulling out knives and makeshift weapons.
The leader stepped forward and placed a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing hard in a warning grip.
"This is your last chance, asshole."
In a fraction of a second, a sickening crunch exploded through the hall.
"Kuaaahhh!" the leader screamed.
His index finger was snapped backward, twisted in an unnatural angle. Before he could react, a heavy kick slammed into his stomach. Bones popped. The leader flew back into his men, crashing into them like a bowling ball.
"You just made a big mistake," one of the gang members snarled.
He rushed in with a knife, blade raised high.
The man flicked his wrist.
A single sheet of paper fluttered toward the attacker.
The gang member hesitated for a split second—and that was enough.
The man's fist slammed directly into his forehead, knuckles driving deep. The force cracked bone like thin ice.
The attacker fell backward, limp.
A ten-cent Malaysian coin was embedded deep into his skull, pushed in by the impact. Blood poured down his face in a slow, thick stream.
The rest of the gang froze.
The man looked up, his eyes empty and soulless.
"You are the ones who made a mistake," he said.
He inhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling like a beast awakening. His neck cracked left, then right, the sound echoing like dry branches snapping.
"I do not feel like this law shit anymore."
The air grew cold.
He looked at the gang, expressionless yet dripping with malice.
"I am doing it my way now," he whispered.
He stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the casket like death itself.
"Anyone who gets in my way is dead."
The lights flickered.
And the killing began.
Fuck! It's him!"
"Who is he, damn it?!"
"Sh… Shiva Bhairava!"
The gang froze for a heartbeat. Fear washed across their faces, but instead of backing away… they tightened their grips on their weapons.
"Kill him! Kill the traitor!!!"
Dozens of them charged at once.
Shiva did not move.
Not until they were close enough to breathe the same air.
Then he unleashed hell.
He met their charge head-on, tearing through bodies like paper. Flesh split under his fingers.
Bones cracked like dry twigs. Blood splattered across the white funeral hall walls in long red streaks.
A throat was ripped open. A jaw torn off. An arm twisted backward until it snapped clean off.
A man screamed as Shiva slammed him into the marble floor so hard his spine burst through his back like broken glass. Another tried to flee only to be tackled, his skull crushed under Shiva's heel.
By the time it was over, Room 10 looked less like a funeral hall and more like a slaughterhouse.
Blood dripped from the walls, pooling under Shiva's shoes. The casket remained untouched, like a throne in the center of carnage.
Shiva stepped over the bodies, expression blank, eyes hollow and red.
Back to the present.
Inside the Shula Group tower, three brothers sat on a long leather sofa in a private lounge. Tension hung heavy in the air.
Arwind Bhairava, the flashy one with brown hair and sharp black eyes, crossed his legs and sighed.
"I heard he fucked everyone up in the funeral parlor," he said casually. "Wiped the whole place clean."
Arwind, the third son, handled loans, scams, debt traps. He knew chaos intimately, but Shiva's chaos was something else.
He turned toward the elder.
"Aren't we going to do something? It won't look good for the presidential election."
The second brother, Sanjay Bhairava, adjusted his glasses. His clean haircut and pristine posture gave him the appearance of a studious gentleman. But his eyes—cold and calculating—betrayed his cruelty.
"Shouldn't we act before things get worse?" Sanjay asked. "He's already moving. The longer we wait, the more dangerous he becomes."
The biggest of them leaned forward, the sofa groaning under his weight.
Bhargav Bhairava—the fourth son. Thick arms, brutish posture, a stone-headed bully who loved breaking bones more than speaking.
"They're right," Bhargav grunted. "We can't just sit around. So what do we do with Shiva, Father?"
They all turned.
At the far end of the room, in the darkness, sat a massive figure.
Kaala Bhairava.
Half of his hair had turned grey with age, but his body remained monstrous—broad shoulders, thick neck, arms like machines.
His presence alone made the room feel smaller. His deep-set eyes glared at the three sons like a judge staring at criminals awaiting verdict.
He remembered testing them as children, throwing them into a pit with rabid, drugged dogs to see who would survive.
All four had emerged drenched in blood.
But Shiva… Shiva had been different. Only eight years old, he killed the dogs silently, efficiently, without emotion. No fear. No anger. Just cold instinct.
Kaala always knew Shiva would grow into either a powerful ally—or a threat greater than any enemy.
Now, the answer was clear.
Kaala leaned forward, half his face revealed from the shadow. His voice was a deep rumble that cracked the air.
"It is no different from killing my own child," he said.
"But he is no longer a child."
Arwind swallowed.
Sanjay clenched his jaw.
Bhargav's pupils shrank.
Kaala Bhairava's eyes sharpened with the certainty of a man passing down a death sentence.
"Kill him."
The command dropped like a guillotine.
Silence filled the room.
Kaala Bhairava, criminal kingpin, presidential candidate, head of the Shula Group—had officially ordered the execution of his own eldest son.
Shiva Bhairava.
The hunt had begun.
---
Chapter 3 — End.